Chapter Four #2
The stage at the center was a dark altar framed by heavy burgundy curtains rich as old blood, and a grand semicircle arch trimmed in zigzag gilt.
Right next to it, the band was setting up: cases unlatched, a bass thumped gently into place, the moody murmur of a piano being tuned.
A cymbal shivered to life with a brush of fingers, then fell silent.
Rick expected poles and cheap glitz, but there was none, just the hush of velvet and slow jazz.
It looked less like a place for dancing than for worship.
A temple of lost illusions that seemed frozen in time.
Behind the long mahogany bar, a tough-looking dame in her late twenties stacked bottles with brisk, mechanical precision.
Her outfit—black blouse, high-waisted slacks, silver brooch—fit the Eclipse’s brand of sultry vintage glam, but nothing about her demeanor invited flirtation.
Auburn curls spilled in tousled waves, pinned haphazardly like she’d done them in a cracked rearview mirror.
Blood-red lipstick, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, brows carved into a permanent scowl.
A cigarette clung to the corner of her mouth, dangling with contempt.
It was the kind of face that dared you to call it anything less than pretty.
She moved without grace, but without wasted effort either, in the way of someone used to earning her keep the hard way. When Rick and Frank descended the shallow stairs, her eyes locked on them instantly: half dare, half disdain. She didn’t smile. Didn’t stop working, either.
“We’re closed,” she barked. “Can’t you read the damn sign?”
Rick approached the bar leisurely, flashing his badge without fanfare. “Take it easy, sister,” he said, his tone low and even. “We’re just here to talk.”
Frank hung back a little, surveying the area with the instinct of a man who’d been shot at more than once.
The woman slammed a bottle down a little harder than necessary. The clink echoed sharp off the bar top. “This about that murder last night?” she asked, not bothering to hide the bite in her voice.
Frank, ever the diplomat, stepped in beside Rick. “Yes, ma’am. Just need a minute of your time.”
Rick watched her hands as she continued restocking the shelves. Fast hands. Nervous hands. Click, clack, thunk—the rhythm almost soothing if you didn’t know it covered stress. Stress made people stupid. Dangerous.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re digging for,” she said, never glancing up. “But Ash didn’t kill nobody. He’s a good guy.”
Rick filed that away carefully. The loyalty was real. So was the anxiety simmering below it. He leaned a fraction closer, letting the dead weight of silence do its work. “How do you know he’s our suspect?” he asked.
She glared at him with eyes that sparkled with green anger. “Because I was there when it happened. I was taking out the trash when I heard the sirens blaring like it was the end of the world, and I went to see what was going on. That’s when I saw your boys in blue take him away.”
“So you were working last night?” Frank asked, keeping the rhythm casual.
“I’m here most nights. Somebody’s gotta feed the cattle.”
Rick let his body relax against the bar, one elbow propped, a picture of easy patience.
But his mind was racing ahead, picking apart her answers, stitching them into something more useful.
He focused his hearing on her heartbeat, searching for any signs of deception. “You see him leave the club?” he asked.
Another hesitation. Subtle, but there. Rick saw it. He heard her pulse spike.
“He had a break a little before one,” she said. “That’s all I know.”
Lie. Or half a lie. There was a difference—and it mattered. Before he could press her, a voice drifted from the back, a drawl laced with mockery.
“He didn’t leave alone. He never does.”
Rick and Frank both turned as a young man sauntered out of the back room shadows. Lean, handsome, strung together with cheap jewelry and cheaper bravado. His jeans and mesh shirt clung to a body that knew it was meant to be looked at.
“Why don’t you shut your trap?” the bartender snapped, her hands curling into fists.
The boy—another dancer, no doubt—grinned lazily and twirled a keyring around one finger. “Just telling the truth, Tess. You know it.”
“I know you’re a jealous prick,” Tess muttered. Her stare could have cut glass.
Rick straightened. Show no bias. Let the rats eat each other, and you’ll see who crawls out first. “And you are?” he asked.
“Cody Grant,” the dancer said, dragging his gaze over Rick, lingering a beat too long. “But you can call me anything you like, handsome.” His mouth curled into a slow, filthy smile.
Frank snorted under his breath, but the flirt slid off Rick like water. He’d dealt with better charmers and worse liars. He let it pass without reaction, the way you’d sidestep a puddle in the street.
Frank moved them along before Cody could push it further. “Tell us what you saw, Mr. Grant.”
Cody shrugged, loose and slippery. “Oh, it was the usual. Ash danced. Picked someone he liked from the crowd. Slipped out with him.” His grin widened. “Same story every night.”
Tess muttered a curse under her breath and spun away to slam another bottle into place. Rick let the silence stretch.
“You get a good look at the guy?” Frank pressed gently.
Cody scratched at his neck. A tell, or a genuine sign of thought?
Rick couldn’t be sure. The boy’s pulse was even, steady.
“Nah,” he said. “Not really. He had one of those faces, you know? White, mid-forties, maybe. Real sharp suit. Didn’t see him before.
Seemed… outta place.” He shrugged again, like he couldn’t be bothered.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rick caught the subtle shift in Tess’s posture, small but loaded. She knew more. Maybe a lot more. If she was working last night, she might’ve been the one who served the man his drinks.
“And Mr. Hunter,” Rick said, returning his focus to the boy, “did he seem… off?”
Cody’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of being listened to. He leaned in. “Ash always seems off. That’s kinda his thing. Makes the mob crazy.”
Tess snorted in the background, her disgust painting the air thicker than the club’s old smoke. “You’re just pissed ‘cause Ash pulls better tips without even trying.”
Cody smirked. “And you’re still hoping he’ll fuck you if you’re nice enough.” His voice sharpened, ugly beneath the sweetness. “Newsflash, honey: he won’t. He’s all about the dick.”
Tess glared at him like she wanted to set him on fire with sheer willpower.
Rick let the argument flare without interruption. People said truer things when they were mad. He caught Frank’s eye—a shared understanding—and turned back to the witnesses. “If you think of anything else,” he said, sliding two cards across the bar, “give me a call.”
Cody snatched one up, spinning it between his fingers. “Don’t mind if I do, hot stuff.”
Tess picked up the other one like it was coated in acid. “Right,” she said flatly. “Sure.” Rick figured that card wouldn’t make it ten feet past the trash can.
He nodded once, the conversation dead in the water, and looked around the room. “We’ll need to speak to your boss,” he said. “Is he around?”
“Upstairs,” Tess said, jerking her chin toward the spiral staircase at the far edge of the hall. “Knock yourselves out.”
As he and Frank climbed, the stairs groaning under their shoes, Rick caught the muted whispers Tess and Cody exchanged, the kind of argument they didn’t want on the record. Something told him neither one had told them everything. Not by a long shot.